Secrets of Nanreath Hall

by Alix Rickloff

  “It was left to me to keep things from coming apart,” Lady Boxley continued almost peevishly. “No one believed a woman had any chance of managing the reins, much less recovering from such staggering losses, but I did it—for Hugh. All for Hugh. He won’t be handed an empty title with nothing to show for it but debt. Not if I can help it.”

  “If it’s for Hugh, perhaps now is a good time to hand it off to him. He could use an occupation of some kind to keep him busy, and you would gain some much-needed rest,” Anna offered in a casual, offhand way.

  “My heart’s strong as ever despite what that detestable doctor says. If Hugh wants an occupation, he should try marriage and fatherhood. Both would give him plenty to fill his time.”

  “Is that his only choice?”

  “Hugh’s the last in a line of belted earls stretching back to the time of Queen Anne, not some collier’s brat with dirt under his nails and a puffed-up sense of himself.” She paused, as if awaiting Anna’s response. Disappointed when she didn’t rise to the bait. “The world’s run mad.”

  Anna positioned Lady Boxley’s head while she carefully applied eyebrow pencil and shadow.

  “It was the same way last time around, you know. The war changed everything. It turned our lives upside-down until no one knew their proper place, and proprieties flew out the window. Life seemed so fleeting, one felt every moment needed to be seized in both hands.”

  Dry rouge, powder again, then mascara. Anna worked quickly and deftly, choosing a lipstick in a lovely shade of cochinelle.

  “You young people think the world will change to suit you.” Once more Lady Boxley regarded herself in the mirror, tilting her head to all angles, pursing and smiling at her reflection. Gone was the washed-out sickbed pallor and the gray hollows of cheek and eyes. Replaced by the Max Factor glow of false health that accented the sleek bones and aristocratic planes of her face. “It won’t, though. It will grind you up and spit you out.” She set the mirror aside, clearing her throat as her expression faded to its usual stark reserve. “I’m tired now and would prefer to rest. Please leave. I’ll be perfectly fine without you hovering.”

  “I’m supposed to stay in case you need anything.”

  “Then stay somewhere else.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Anna drew the curtains closed against the late-afternoon glare and switched off the light. “I’ll be in the sitting room if you need me.”

  “I can assure you that you won’t be needed.” As Anna began to close the door, Lady Boxley cleared her throat. “But you may leave the door ajar . . . if you like.”

  Anna smiled.

  A week later Captain Matthews proclaimed Lady Boxley well enough to leave her rooms.

  “As long as you stay away from rich foods, tobacco, alcohol, and caffeine, take your medications, and refrain from undue stresses and activity, there’s no reason you shouldn’t outlive us all.”

  “Living like that, I’d rather be dead.” She regarded Anna with the lift of one carefully plucked eyebrow. “I suppose you’ll abandon me now happily enough.”

  “My duty lies with the men downstairs, my lady. I did this as a favor.”

  “For Hugh?”

  “No, ma’am. For you.”

  Lady Boxley looked away for a moment, her hands running along the seam of her coverlet. “And what am I supposed to do, starving, drugged, and bored? Who’s going to help me with the crossword or sort my correspondence and reply to all those dull charity ladies’ requests for assistance or fix my tea the way I like it?”

  “I’m leaving this wing of the house not the whole country. I can stop in from time to time.”

  “See that you do,” Lady Boxley ordered, already dismissing her from her thoughts as she began reading the newspaper.

  Anna departed Lady Boxley’s room for the clockwork chaos of the hospital where she would find the comforting routine of bedpans, daily rounds, and endless scrubbing a relief after the minefield of the last week.

  She passed through the gallery, the transition from the family’s opulent wing to her plain attic billet like stepping through a door into another world. The elegant, beeswax-scented sanctuary of heavy polished furniture and fresh-cut flowers fading into scratched and dented walls covered in ugly institutional green, the incessant noise from the wards, and the constant odor of carbolic and rubbing alcohol.

  “There you are. Sophie said I might find you up here.” Tony climbed the stairs toward her.

  “Don’t tell me you’re depositing Hugh. Even he can’t be soused this early in the day.”

  “Actually, I had a free afternoon and thought I’d ride over. Wasn’t sure when I’d get another chance.”

  “I don’t know. I really should report to Matron.”

  “It can’t wait for a few hours? She’ll never know you’re missing. If anyone wonders, they’ll think you’re still encamped with Lady Boxley.” He gave her a wounded look. “You don’t want to turn down a chap on what might be his last free afternoon for ages.”

  She relented with a laugh. “All right. I’ll get my sweater and meet you out front.” She paused. “No, wait. I’ll meet you at the side door by the stairs to the kitchens. Less conspicuous.”

  “A devious mind and a pretty face. A potent combination.”

  Outside, a swirling salty breeze kept the afternoon sun from being too warm, and the lawn stretched green away to a line of trees. “I have wheels . . . of a kind,” Tony said. “I borrowed a friend’s motorbike. Care to ride pillory? We could drive to Newquay for tea.”

  She eyed the battered motorbike with trepidation. “I have a better idea. I’ve always wanted to see the cliff ruins. Now would be the perfect time.”

  He cocked her a curious look. “What do you know about the ruins?”

  “Nothing yet.” She took his arm.

  “It’s a rough hike. Sure you’re up for it?”

  She turned to look back at the house, the tall windows gleaming in the sun. She almost felt as if the eyes of Lady Boxley were upon her as she set out across the grass. “Definitely.”

  At the edge of the lawn, they turned onto a narrow rutted footpath leading away through a thick wood. As they neared the cliffs, the path grew rockier, the trees giving way to wide, sweeping moorland punctuated by enormous wooden poles sticking up into the air and crisscrossed with deep roughly dug trenches to keep enemy aircraft from landing. The sea shone like silver off to a cloud-hung horizon. Seabirds floated on the breeze, lifting up above the cliffs before diving like Stukas to the sea and the swirling tide pools below.

  Anna had never walked this way in her hikes. The village lay to the south, where the roads were paved and the way easy; this constant clamber over rocks as the wind shoved with invisible hands and tore one’s breath away was a battle for every step. Still, she didn’t tire as she might have just six months ago. The endless hours of hard physical labor and the miles of passages and stairs she’d walked since coming to Nanreath Hall had toughened injured muscles and restored her strength. They crossed a deep gully lined with broken shale that slid under her feet, turning her ankles. As she hitched herself up out of a ditch, she froze, her heart lifting into her throat with delight.

  “Voilà.” He presented the cliff ruins with a sweep of his arm.

  “They’re amazing.” She hurried toward the ancient stone and earthworks hanging precariously out over the edge of the cliff face. Steps cut from the ground led down and then back up where a circle of mossy blocks rose into the air in a crumbling tower. Beyond it, more steps, these carved smooth by the wind and slick with spray, climbed even higher toward an empty window arch and a second stone floor. “It’s just like my mother’s drawings.”

  After the initial awe of discovery wore off, she saw the more recent evidence of habitation. Stones sprinkled with graffiti, an empty wine bottle tossed in the high grass, cigarette butts, even a few bits of charred wood from some long-ago prewar bonfire. “Rumor has it that all the young couples in the neighborhood come here when they want
some privacy,” she commented.

  A corner of Tony’s mouth broke upward, his brows lifted in cocky amusement. “Is that why you brought me? I’m flattered.”

  Anna flushed. “Forget I mentioned it.”

  “I don’t know. That’s a pretty hard thing for a chap to forget.” His smile curved mischievously. “It’s not every day I’m pursued by a beautiful woman.”

  “That’s not what I hear.”

  The mischief in his gaze deepened. “Then you’re listening to the wrong people, my dear.”

  He stepped toward her, his intention to kiss her obvious. She wavered, trapped between wanting to meet his advance and give herself up to his affection and run as far and as fast as she could back the way she’d come. Taking the coward’s way out, she flung herself away with a hard swallow and made for the ruins, nearly running the last few feet. Tony called out, but she ignored his cautions as she slipped and slithered down the earthen steps and back up again into the outer circle of stones.

  “Anna, wait!”

  Unheeding, she climbed the worn stone stairs toward the archway, the wind tearing at the pins in her hair, snapping at her skirt.

  “Careful,” he called out. “It’s unsteady the higher you go. Bits are always falling off.”

  “I want to see the view,” she shouted back.

  He didn’t chase after her but stood at the wall’s base, shielding his eyes with his hands as he watched her climb. “It’s water. Same as down here.”

  “Coming up?” By now she was about twenty feet above him, the stair twisting back upon itself as it rose within the toppled tower with naught but sky overhead.

  “I think I like my head attached to my neck, thank you very much.”

  She stepped onto the upper floor and right up to the open edge where the wind curled around the crumbling tower wall to snatch her breath away. A flight of Beaufort bombers roared overhead and out to sea where a plume of ominous smoke rose from the horizon. She watched them grow smaller and smaller until they were naught but dots, no bigger than the birds. She lifted her face to the sun, dizzy as the sky wheeled above her, her stomach rising like a balloon into her chest.

  “Anna!” Tony shouted.

  She stumbled, curling her fingers into the chinks of the balustrade as the wind slammed her back against the archway. She froze as a piece of the floor tipped upward sending a scattering of broken rocks shearing from the tower to drop with a smash of pebbles down the cliffs.

  “Sit down very slowly,” Tony said in a calming voice. “And don’t move—don’t even breathe—until I get there.”

  Anna backed from the edge in small, shuffling steps until she came up against the far wall of the tower then inched her bottom down, reclining against the base, her knees drawn up, heart thrashing. A moment later Tony was kneeling beside her. Sweat beaded his forehead. He wiped it with his sleeve. “Are you mad? I just lost five years off my life watching those rocks give way with you standing there.”

  “My life just flashed before my eyes. Sad to say, it wasn’t very interesting.”

  Tony’s shoulder pressed along her arm, his hip neighboring hers. This time when he sought her hand, she took it. “Let’s just rest for a minute before we descend, okay?” he said, still trying to catch his breath.

  She risked a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry, Tony.”

  Would he recognize her apology for what it was? Their eyes met. She noted the amber flecks surrounding his irises, the thickness of his lashes. She felt the tension stringing his muscles everywhere their bodies touched. Anticipation mixed with confusion.

  Then he put his arm around her with a smile and the moment dissolved. “You should be sorry. If I died of a heart attack, it would have been your fault. I’d like to have seen you try to explain that to my commander.”

  She leaned her head on his shoulder. “A brave pilot like you scared of heights? I don’t believe it.”

  “Not for myself, mind you, but when I see someone I care about tipping precariously toward a gruesome death, I get a bit squeamish. Now, had you been surrounded by spiders, I might have left you to your fate.”

  “Spiders?”

  He shrugged. “Blame my sister for that personal phobia. What about you?”

  “Hmm . . . it would have to be Kewpie dolls. Something about those sweet little faces and those dewy eyes.” She shuddered.

  He laughed. “I’ll bear it in mind if I ever take you to a fair.”

  “Funny. All this death and destruction around us, and it’s spiders and dolls that give us the collywobbles.”

  “Maybe it’s better that way. One can’t be frightened all the time.” He leaned his head back against the stones, lifting his eyes to the wind-riven clouds. His arm felt nice draped around her shoulder. The breeze was chilly despite the sun and her light jumper wasn’t enough to keep her warm. His heat was welcome, his strength reassuring. Then she remembered the flight of Beauforts and the smear of black on the horizon. Personal strength counted for nothing. Stronger, more skilled men died every day in this war. One could only take each day as it was offered and reach no further. Planning for the future only invited heartbreak. And loving someone was out of the question. She’d suffered enough pain for a hundred lifetimes.

  She followed his gaze, wondering what he saw in the ragged contrails. “Are you ever frightened? I mean when you’re up there.”

  He took a moment to answer, and when he spoke it was barely audible. “All the time.”

  There was another long pause. His breathing seemed to shallow and the hand gripping his cap tightened. “I think I’d be more worried if I wasn’t frightened because it would mean I’d stopped feeling anything. And that would be a far greater tragedy.”

  The sound of explosions traveled over the sea, echoing against the cliffs like thunder. The smear of darkness at the horizon thickened and boiled, flames licking red and curling as serpent’s tongues. Like the rocks under her feet crumbling and falling away, Anna felt cracks fissuring the hard shell surrounding her heart. The pain made her gasp. She began to shake. Memories flashed like lightning or the red-hot burst of an explosion across her mind.

  “Anna? Are you all right?”

  She nodded, drawn back by the sound of his voice, the strength of his clasp, the warmth of his body beside hers. She scrubbed her face until her cheeks tingled before curling her knees to her chest, arms wrapped round them. Stared dead-eyed out to sea.

  “Do you want to tell me?” Tony asked.

  “Not really.”

  He gave a half smile and a sheepish shrug. “Numbing yourself to life isn’t the answer, Anna. And it may be self-serving, but I want you feeling everything to its fullest.”

  “Oh?”

  He leaned closer and before she knew it, he kissed her forehead. Then his mouth moved from her hair to her cheek to her lips. Gentle, almost shy at first, until she responded, then the heat between them increased until she felt it down her spine, between her breasts, along her inner thighs.

  “Oh,” she repeated breathlessly.

  Anna ached to touch him and be touched. To find solace in his hand on her waist, her rib cage, the line of her back. She laid a hand on his chest, which rose and fell with quick, shallow breaths. He murmured into her hair. She knew this was wrong, but for so long she’d felt nothing, that even guilt was a welcome emotion. Emotion and sensation merged into a maelstrom of experience from the tingling gooseflesh lifting the hairs on her arms to the damp ache between her legs to the slam of her heart against her rib cage. He was the cause. She couldn’t let him go. She wouldn’t make him stop.

  He came to his senses when she could not. “Not that I wouldn’t happily finish what I’ve started, but this is neither the time nor the place.” His eyes burned dark, lips swollen from her kisses, shirttails hanging loose, and his dark hair adorably stuck up like a rooster’s comb.

  She dropped her eyes, all too conscious now of what she’d almost done. How far she might have traveled down that path if he hadn’t st
opped them. Like mother, like daughter? And look how that had turned out.

  As if reading her thoughts, Tony caressed her cheek before tipping her chin to meet his gaze. “You’re not Lady Katherine. I’m not Simon Halliday. And we’re not doomed to repeat their mistakes, Anna.”

  She nodded, escaping the intensity of his stare by following the track of a lone seabird rising and falling on the warm sea drafts.

  He seemed to accept her silence. He lit a cigarette, drawing a soothing pull into his lungs. “I wish . . .” She closed her eyes, her voice trailing off in a sigh, unable to put her dreams into words.

  “What do you wish?”

  She inhaled the crisp air and let it out on a breath, sidling away as if that might protect her from this new and almost painful awareness of him. “It doesn’t matter. Wishes are for birthdays and evening stars.” She shivered in the lengthening shadows. The day’s magic faded with the sun. “I have to get back.” She rose on shaky legs to begin the slow, careful climb down from their perch. She had only made it a few steps before ducking back behind the arch.

  “What’s wrong?” Tony asked.

  “It’s Tilly and Hugh,” she whispered. “And she’s crying.”

  Chapter 22

  January 1916

  The New Year dawned with no end to the war in sight. Every day brought new stories of tragedy until we became numb to the pain. Life went on, but it had lost its optimistic exuberance. We endured because we must, but no one was immune from the shroud of sorrow hanging over the world. Of those I was closest to, Miss Ferndale-Branch lost a brother to chlorine gas, Jane’s merchant seaman went down with his ship in the Med, and Agnes’s new husband—she gave up her dreams of a duke to settle for a corporal in the Royal Irish fusiliers—succumbed to trench fever. Our tragedies did not set us apart in any way. Color seemed to seep from the world, leaving only dreary shades of widow’s weed black.

  William had been posted to the French frontier near Lille while Simon continued in training at Grimsby with the Fourth Suffolk, though he anticipated a transfer to the front by spring. It got so I dreaded the step of the postman on the stair and shrank from telegram boys as if they carried plague.